


You Still Look Like A Movie (You Still Sound Like A Song)

by serendipityinwords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Best Friends to Lovers, Childhood Friends, F/M, Fluff, Playgrounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:30:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipityinwords/pseuds/serendipityinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is ten when she meets Bellamy Blake. He's eleven and he claims to be too old for the playground. Clarke hates him for it. </p>
<p>Later, Clarke is fourteen the first time she kisses Bellamy. She's pretty sure she's in love with him.</p>
<p>And then he leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Still Look Like A Movie (You Still Sound Like A Song)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at the stage of my writing where I'm constantly experimenting with my writing style. I can never tell if I actually like it until a little later. Tell me what you guys think, though. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Song title from When We Were Young by Adele.

The first time Bellamy kisses Clarke, she’s fourteen and she’s pretty sure she’s in love with him.

Here’s the thing; she never thought it would be a _him_. Up till then, she’d only ever liked girls. Her cheeks had only warmed when Harper hugged her from behind. Her heart had only ever sped up when Fox had playfully kissed her on the cheek. Then, there was the crush she had on her stern-faced babysitter Anya. The time she was convinced she was in love with Maya from her third grade class, only to be told that she didn’t mean girlfriend in _that_ way.

Yeah, she would have realized eventually that she liked guys too. For all Finn’s assholery and cheating, he gave her all sorts of butterflies. And before that, Wells would have confirmed that, with his pretty eyes and skilled tongue. But Bellamy was Bellamy and she was glad it was him.

She meets Bellamy a day after she turns ten.

She’d known him vicariously through Octavia, who was a couple of years younger than her, before actually meeting him. They had a silent agreement to meet at the playground, between both their houses, on Fridays, sharp at five. Neither kid was ever late, though she could never really be sure _why_.

One day, her brother comes along. Octavia says it’s because he worries too much. She confesses that she may have almost gotten hit by a car because she had stopped in the middle of the road, to tie her shoelaces. But tying your shoelaces is important right? So, the timing might have been a little off. Bellamy's just overreacting.

Clarke had been intrigued by him. He was pretty for a boy. All wild curls and brown eyes and thin limbs and tan skin. (Freckles, too.) She found it interesting, how he protected Octavia; glaring at those who looked at her too long. Flinching before she hit the ground. She didn’t have any one like that for her. Maybe Wells. But Wells had made it clear, on multiple occasions, that he wasn’t her brother.

He was definitely a lot ruder than Wells.

Bellamy always sat at the bench beside the purple slide, waiting for Octavia to finish so he could take her home, eyes rolling, knees bouncing. Clarke was a very perceptive kid. She knew that he couldn’t wait to get out of there and she hated him for it. He never deigned to join them, claiming to be too old for playgrounds, even though Clarke knew for a fact that he was only a year older than her. She didn’t like that he never played with them. She used to think that it was because she felt insulted. Like, she was also too old to play at the playground just because he was. But it became pretty evident that he simply didn’t care about her. He looked through her. Like she was nothing at all.

She couldn’t understand the flash of hurt that she felt at the thought.

But she was ten and nothing could stop a ten year old Clarke Griffin from having the time of her life. They hung out at the playground as children do, tripping over themselves, laughing into the sand, swinging much too high, on the much too rickety swing sets.

The thing was; she was still intrigued by Bellamy Blake. He wore that aloof expression all the time. Except, whenever he looked over at Octavia. Clarke was just a budding artist back then but she knew things about art. Sunsets aren’t hard all around. They’re soft at the edges and they always bleed. That’s what Bellamy had reminded her of. Clarke was just a budding artist back then. But even she knew he was beautiful thing.

You could say it all started around the time Octavia had fallen off the seesaw. She could see his face, etched with concern and something else. Like, he would have given anything in the world to take away her pain. Clarke felt another twinge in her chest.

In the end, she dressed Octavia’s wound because Octavia was her friend and her mom had taught her, anyway. Not for any other reason.

He had thanked her without meeting her eyes, feet shuffling. She didn’t know how she could tell, but she knew he blamed himself. Which is ridiculous. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d want to carry the world on his shoulders, even if it was ridiculous. He was a ridiculous guy/

She smiled slightly. She didn’t do it for him. She told him as much.

He finally looked up, and she could tell that his eyes were brown. Darker than Octavia’s. Softer, too. She filed it away, the exact shade of his eyes. It would be hard to get that color. It’s too close to black. She tried very hard, though.

“Thank you,” he said again. Maybe it was because of how real he felt or because of how he was holding her gaze enough, she could see the sky reflected in them. She swallowed and nodded.

But she didn’t do it for him.

But time went by and things change, as she was quickly learning. He became less rigid. Like all of his defences fell at once. He smiled more. Laughed easier. Bigger. Like he wasn’t afraid to anymore. (She may or may not have fallen off the slides just so she could hear him laugh. And if she did, it’s only because he had a pretty laugh. No other reason.) To Clarke, this Bellamy was the closest thing to a miracle she’d ever known.

Bellamy had taken to calling her princess. She froze at the nickname the first time he used it, convinced that he had found out about her mother. Clarke Griffin: only child of town Mayor, Abigail Griffin; Practically Royalty.

At ten, logically, she knew she was privileged. She only had to look at her new friends—ratty shoes, clothes with holes, an angry sort of arrogance— to know that. They may have lived a little ways from the playground they frequented, just as she had, but they were worlds apart. So, of course she knew that she was privileged. But she was a kid and she hated the way, until then, people had thrown the word around as an insult. They carved into her. She knew it shouldn’t. Wells never let it carve into him. But they just did for her. They were thrown around by tired kids who couldn’t have known what they were doing. They were just angry and she hated that they had a reason to be.

It had taken her a moment to look down at the crown pendant—solid gold, but he couldn’t have known that— and to notice the way his tone had softened at the nickname. He was fond of her, she could hear it. (She was just hungry. That’s why her stomach did that funny lurch when he smiled her way.)

He still never played with them but whenever she passed by, he would do a funny kind of curtsy that never failed to make her giggle. He would smirk, proud when the laughter bubbles out, the way she wouldn’t have let it anywhere else. She knew, he liked her laugh, too. Somehow, that was enough.

She tried to tell her mom about them. For her part, she tried so hard to be interested. She could see it in the way her eyebrows were pinched and the way she nodded every now and then. But Clarke was perceptive. She also saw the way her knees bounced and the way her eyes drifted over to where her father had laid, coughing slightly. Both of them knew better. It was never just slightly.

It was fine. The Blakes were her secret.

She’d started noticing things about them the way lonely kids tended to do. She kept reminding herself that they were her friends; she didn’t have to be lonely. (There was also Wells, whom she loved dearly, but differently.) But there was this part of her that didn’t believe that. Every time they laughed, she flinched; convinced it was _at_ and not _with_ her.

She should have known better. The Blakes were of chivalry and good character. They were kind smiles thrown her way when she had nothing else to look forward to. They were of teasing and uncontainable love, practically bursting from the seams. They loved each other the way only siblings can. When they thought no one was looking. (Octavia only ever spoke highly of Bellamy when he wasn’t around, but called him names when he was. Clarke didn’t get it. She never had brothers but if Bellamy was hers, she would never be mean to him. But then again, she never wanted Bellamy to be her brother. )

The Blakes were good and she needed good. She needed them.

Octavia made friends fast. The way only seven year olds can. Clarke might have been a little jealous, but she had explained, as if trying to appease, that Clarke was special. Clarke was her first. _Besides_ , she says _, you’re Bell’s favourite._

Clarke wasn’t jealous anymore.

She’d noticed the similarities between her and Bellamy. Both were fiercely protective over Octavia. Both watched over the playground like a pair of pretend guardians. That was always her favourite game. Pretending. Pretending she didn’t notice their patchy clothing and tired eyes. Pretending she was a part of their world as much as they were a part of hers. Pretending that the playground was their home, instead of the reality buffer it served as. Pretending that she didn’t feel for Bellamy Blake. Pretending that if she reached out and touched Bellamy, if he knew everything she wanted to tell him, that things would be the same.

Bellamy never played along but she’d catch him smiling at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She was looking. She was always looking.

Somehow, years had gone by. Three things had happened by the time she had turned fourteen. One, her father had died. Two, she had somewhat accepted that she had a thing for Bellamy Blake. Three, she outgrew the playground, but never left.

Some things still stayed the same. Her friendship with Bellamy was one of those things. They had a strange bond going for them, Clarke and Bellamy. It was nothing like eating lunch with Wells (and the occasional hand holding, just to try it) or braiding Harper’s hair or wrestling Octavia to the ground. It was born accidentally. Born out of the similarities as much as the differences. And they cared. A lot. They hugged and touched carelessly and he'd press himself close to her whenever he'd want to really tell her something. The touches were as intimate as they were casual. Sometimes, they did nothing and sometimes, they drove her insane.

They were also full of untruths and half-hidden longing. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why. Bellamy knew that she stayed at the playground for him. But he never commented on it.  He was just as scared as she was. She found herself wishing he would ask her about it. Just so that she could tell him how much she didn't know. But Bellamy Blake was a force of nature and wishing had never done her any good.

They gravitated towards each other like planets out of orbit. It was a little scary how all-consuming it was. She’d do anything for him. She knew, above everything else, he would too. Somewhere, she was aware that she was much too young to feel like this. But then again, she wasn’t about to question it.

* * *

 

Considering how finely tuned they were to each other, she was surprised she hadn’t noticed that he had a girlfriend. (From Octavia, of all people, who had merely made a face when she asked for more. Clarke stopped asking.) Well, _had_ had a girlfriend. She was too happy about that development to ignore that feeling in her chest _. You have a chance_ , it seemed to say _. She doesn’t want one_ , she reminded herself. Maybe she did? But she was fourteen and she was pretty smart for her age, so of course she knew, whatever this was, it would never last.

But maybe it would.

She didn’t know what she expected to feel when she’d seen him the day after. A sick sense of joy? Indifference? Maybe she would have been amused. Whatever it was, she didn’t expect to be so heart crushingly sad about it.

She knew sadness. She felt it when her dad smiled up at her, and she knew it was the last time. This sadness didn’t quite come close, but she felt it. Like a stab in the heart.

She felt it again, the overwhelming awareness that she was too young to be feeling these things. But she was also coming to realize that there was no such thing. Whatever she felt, it was real and it was hers.

She was confused about lots things—him included— but she knew for a fact, she never wanted to see that expression on his face again.

“I didn’t know she meant so much to you, Bell.” He looked up at her, clearly confused. For a ridiculous moment, she pictured him saying something like, “not as much you mean to me.” But his eyebrows remained drawn in and his head, cocked slightly to the left.

Instead he says, “Who?” and she snaps out of it immediately.

Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up. Maybe she didn’t mean that much to him. She quelled the joy rising in her gut semi-successfully. “Your girlfriend,” she says, finally, unable to stop the word from sounding bitter.

“Oh.” She thinks she probably imagined the knowing smile. He didn’t know. How could he? She didn’t even know.

“It’s—“His hands stray towards his pocket, where she knew his phone was, in case something happened to his mother. She could have hit herself for forgetting.

“Your mother,” she finished.

He nodded. “She’s getting better.” And it was the way he said it that kind of broke her heart. As if he was daring the universe to contradict him. The careless rage, she found so sad, was etched onto his face. Maybe that was why she said what she said next. She couldn’t bear hearing his lie again. She knew it better than anyone else.

“Okay,” she said. He blinked at her. A real friend would have pursued the matter. But she was selfish. “Then what’s the problem?” He smiled, albeit, cautiously. It was a good smile. She filed it away for later.

“It’s just,” He said considering her, foot tapping, jaw tightening. She waited. He relented, sighing. “She says I’m not a good kisser.”

Clarke blinked a couple of times. She knew Bellamy enough to know that he wasn’t upset about that. He was upset in general. He had so many things to be upset about, being mad at a girl who didn’t like him would have seemed like a great out. Again, she might have dwelled on the fact that she knew him like this. Like she saw his soul and she mapped it out in her mind.  But she’d dwelled enough. She though she could accept it. He’d probably accepted it too.

Clarke obliged. “I’m sure you’re not that bad.” He relaxed. Not enough for anyone else to notice. It was just for her.

“She did break up with me over it.” But he was too amused to back the words. She remembers thinking that he was a shit liar.

“Kiss me then,” she said before she could stop herself. His eyes widened and she had to clench her fists at her side to stop them from covering her mouth. She considered it a feat, the way her voice was steady when she said, “You know I’m a girl. I can tell you what you’re doing wrong.” It wasn’t a smooth recovery but he seemed to believe it, nodding solemnly.

“That’s a good idea,” he mutters, voice strange. “Besides, you don’t like guys.”

She didn’t correct him. It was true, in a way. But Bellamy seemed to have slipped through the cracks. He was an exception. He always was.

Instead, she get on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. Dry and soft. She’d never kissed anyone before so she was surprised when her arms came around his neck, pulling herself closer until they just fit. Bellamy, for his part, was quite skilled. He slid his hands into her hair and she relaxed a little, where she was rigid. The kiss itself wasn’t much. They were barely teenagers, of course it wasn’t much. It was just the act of being so close to Bellamy that had set off every single sense in her body. She’d never felt quite so alive.

He pulled away, a little breathless, flushed despite his tanned skin. She couldn’t imagine that she was doing better. She felt her neck go red under his gaze. He was looking at her like she was a wonder. Something unimaginable and absolutely interesting in every way. Maybe it was because he was Bellamy and he was a shit liar, but she believed him.

“Maybe I do like guys.”

He smiles again and this time, his smile is bright and makes her delirious. She can’t stop staring back. Weirdly, it was her dad she thinks of, warning her in the voice she tries not to forget, not to stare too long at the sun. It wasn’t that hard to stop back then. Now, though.

She doesn’t remember when that day had ended. She remembers vague snippets of it. Clarke, smiling back, slowly, tentatively. Him, trailing his hands from her cheek, down the side of her arm, finally lacing his fingers through hers. Them, silently holding hands, waiting for Octavia to tire herself out. Bellamy squeezing her hand one time and leaving with O, looking back to grin at her. It felt like a promise. It felt like there was more.

In the end, the thing she most remembered was that he never came back.

* * *

 

She hasn’t exactly been pining for Bellamy in the six years after he left. She’s dated. Girls and boys. Fallen in love. Gotten her heart broken and broke some hearts. She was fine without him. But no one quite fit like he did. And there was that vague feeling that she was missing something. A feeling that had started suspiciously since they had left. Like another layer of skin. So always present, it was easy to ignore. Over time, she had forgotten the little things. The exact shade of brown his eyes were (she never had found the color). How much taller he was then her. How concentrated the shock of freckles on his face were. She’d forgotten. She had let it fade from memory because there really was no point in remembering.

So she’s a little surprised at how quickly she recognizes him from across the crowded coffee shop, his head bent over a book.

Clarke knows exactly what Bellamy looks like, she remembers suddenly. Octavia had friended her on facebook a couple of years ago. She had learnt through some low level stalking that their mother had died around the year they’d left. It was easy to deduce what had happened. It wasn’t easy at all to really accept it. 

 Bellamy didn’t have an account—she’d checked, of course she’d checked—so she had gotten kind of desperate. She needed to see how he was. What he was doing. Somehow not knowing had made her feel itchy, the layer of skin more noticeable. Through some higher level stalking, she found a picture of him buried under the thousands of pictures Octavia had already posted.  

It was clearly her Birthday. Octavia looked around the age Clarke was when he kissed her. Her eyes were bright and Bellamy—who had grown up even prettier— was draped over her, smiling bigger than she’d ever seen.  It was nice. It made her feel lighter somehow. Like she’d just been relieved of a burden she hadn’t known she’d been carrying. Bellamy would be okay. And she’d been content with that.

Bellamy is still very pretty. His hair’s as unruly as she remembers. His eyes slightly darker than she had assumed. He kept shoving his fingers through his curls and she recalls, sharp and sudden, wanting to do that so badly when she was twelve. That one day, the wind had whipped so hard she had to constantly hold her skirt down and Bellamy’s hair was defying fucking gravity. She had never seen hair like that. The other boys in her school had then gelled down, parted to the left, trimmed short. His was wild and free, like he didn’t care, and she became obsessed. She had been struck with the urge to run her fingers through his hair, pat it down, touch him somehow. But she was Clarke and he was Bellamy, so she only looked away. Later she had gone home and drawn it. The boy whose hair got caught in the wind.

She shoves the memory away, determined not to break first.

He looks up from his book a second and her breath catches. She feels a shift in the air. For a while, it seems like he might look up at her and recognize her, somehow. But, she thinks, he wouldn’t remember her anyway.

But he looks up at her and does. His eyes widen comically large and his mouth spreads into this huge grin and she’s just staring back.

“Princess,” he mouths. She feels the familiar press of her pendant on the hollow of her neck and smiles.

He gets up and starts walking to her. She's pictured this moment many times in the past, never quite past the resentment of him leaving.  She would be twenty-five (maybe twenty-seven) and beautiful and successful and he would be sorry he ever left. But she’s barely twenty and exhausted and coffee stained and all she feels is relief.

She gets up before she can tell herself not to and she nearly throws herself at him. For his part, Bellamy’s only a little surprised. His hands come over her in seconds and he’s lifting her off the ground. Bellamy’s taller and broader than he was then but he still hugs the same.

He buries his head in the crook of her neck and whispers her name over and over again. She’s so goddamn relieved. She hadn’t known it then yet, but she was so worried that she would never see him again. She still can’t believe it. The coffee shop buzzes with noise but really, there’s no one else.  He pulls away and her throat goes tight when she sees the look on his face.  The same as it was the day he kissed her.

And again, despite everything, she believes him.

“I’ve missed you,” he says simply. She’s kind of overjoyed at how easy and truthful the words sound.

“I’ve miss you, too.” She smiles up at him. If it he was anyone else, she might have been slightly worried at how open her face. How vulnerable. She can’t remember the last time she trusted so blatantly. She can't remember that ever being a problem with Bellamy. 

“Hey,” he whispers, forehead pressed against hers. Her fingers touch the edge of his smile. 

She grins and he grins back. “Hey.” He chuckles softly. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head and a single curl of hair falls out from behind his ear. “It just looks my luck’s finally looking up.”

She laughs, short and surprised, happy. She knows; she can see it in the way his face lights up; he still likes her life. “Mine, too.”

She’s desperate to find out if she still loves his laugh. How many slides she’s willing to fall off to hear it.

He holds out his hand and she takes it.

(She does.)

(Too many.)

Bellamy Blake had always been a kind of puzzle to her. Even when she knew him, she never really did. She knew the inside of him. He was brave and kind and arrogant and smart and he cared so fucking much. She knew what made him tick. She knew that essence of Bellamy Blake but she didn’t know the why. She never knew of the incidents that had led to it. He would never tell her.

He spoke of the future and dreams she couldn’t even begin to hold on to. They were big and beautiful dreams. They felt foreign. They felt new. It was basically magic and she was enthralled. Yet, she had craved more.  So, she’d observe. She watched him clench his jaw whenever she complained about how annoying her mom was being (his mom was sick). She watched his eyes light up when she asked him about mythology (his favorite was the story of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders). She watched him wipe away a tear at the last few pages of Romeo and Juliet (He was a sap). She watched and she filed it away. One step closer to solving him.

This Bellamy Blake is different. He gives himself away freely. He speaks without weighing. He tells her about his degree in history and how little his prospects are but he’s hopeful. He tells her about how much he hates the weather. He tells her about his multiple shifts at the bar down the street because even with a full ride, books cost money. She doesn’t have to solve him. He isn’t a puzzle. He’s a boy who hasn’t seen a friend in a while.

She settles into him easier than she’d expected. He’s kind of an asshole, but so is she.

She tells him about her art and how pre-med might cause her an early death. She talks about how much she misses her dad and how much she wishes she would miss her mom.

He tells her about Octavia and her older boyfriend he likes but only in secret.

(He’s huge and he’s covered and tattoos but he loves her and Bellamy can’t fault Lincoln for that.)

She tells him about Finn and how the biggest mistakes can feel like nothing at all, in a couple of years.

(She’s been alright for a while now. Besides, she has Raven and the rest are technicalities.)

He tells her that he’s never quite gotten the love part right.

(He assures her he’s tried. He rattles off names; Roma, Echo, Gina. Maybe he’s not fit for love.)

She tells him about Raven and Wells, about how she learnt that there’s always hope for a broken heart.

(They don’t always heal right, but they heal enough.)

He tells her about how his mother was never there but he still misses her.

(Because her arms were warm and it got cold sometimes.)

She tells him about how much she’s missed him; like there was a goddamn Bellamy Blake sized hole in her chest.

(It doesn’t make sense, she tells him, embarrassed. It kind of does, he says to her. Maybe it does.)

He tells her that he thought Clarke was it and he was a different kind of broken when he left.

(He thinks he turned out fine, though. She has to agree.)

She tells him that she wishes he called.

(She wished it so much; she could taste it in the mornings.)

He tells her that he does, too.

(But he didn’t know how and he hated himself a little for it.)

She tells him goodbye before she leaves.

(She murmurs the words into his shoulders, her arms wrung around his neck.)

He tells her that they’ll meet again.

(She feels his lips move against the crown of her head.)

She believes him.

They don’t make plans. They never do. She finds Bellamy there, same time, the next week. And they talk.

(It occurs to her that he only allows himself to speak to _her_  this wayl; because he's lost her once and he doesn't want to lose her again. But that thought is idiotic and giddying and she doesn’t dwell.)

((She does.))

It turns out that loving Bellamy Blake is like riding a bicycle. Clarke never forgot how. Don’t get her wrong, he isn’t exactly the same person he was at fifteen. He’s broader and his heart is a little more broken and she hears his bones creaks when she’s listening real close. But he’s there. She’s not the same either. Her heart is a guarded thing; all sharp edges and uneven lines, but he finds his way there all the same.

They meet three more times before he kisses her.

He says he thinks it’s better than the first time.

(Because she’s better with her tongue and he uses his fingers well.)

She tells that there is always room for improvement when she kisses him again.

(Teeth clanking, lips bruising.)

They make plans now. Bellamy tells her to come over on Saturday at three, for lunch so she can meet his sister (again.) Octavia doesn’t remember her much but she’s okay with that. They get along swimmingly, if she does say so herself.

Besides, she has Bellamy. She’ll live.

He slips his fingers through her hair when he fucks her. He tells her that her hair is like spun gold and he forgets to breathe when he stares too long.

She slides her fingers down the hard panes of his chest when they’re done. His chest is heaving and the freckles there separate and come back together with each breath. She’s fascinated. She traces them with her finger. He trembles lightly under her and she smiles into the hollow of his throat. She goes back to the freckles whenever she can. She forms constellations. She names them. She forgets right after. She loves them. She loves him.

She falls asleep on his chest when he whispers that he loves her into thick dark of the night.

She laughs lightly. Deliriously. She loves him, she tells him. Of course she loves him. She’s loved him since she knew people could.

When he proposes, it’s clear out and they’re at the playground.  It’s not the one they met at, (the slides are green here and the swings are too stable) but it comes close enough. The sand stains his pants when he kneels in front of her and the wind gets caught in his hair.

He says that he’s known her his whole life and he’d like to know her for the rest of it. Clarke kneels too, sand poking into the skin of her shins, and rests her head against his chest.  It feels like a promise. It feels like there’s more. She knows, though, that there will never be goodbye. She runs her fingers through his wind-stained curls, nose poking into the side of his neck, when she says yes. What else could she say?

It’s been him for a while now.

This time, when she kisses him, she’s twenty-five and she's pretty sure she’s in love with Bellamy Blake.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm idontgiveaneffie on tumblr. Come cry with me about fictional characters.


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